


Love Is

by SilentAuror



Series: Love Is [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, POV: Sherlock Holmes, POV: third person, Post-Divorce, Romance, Unrequited Love, post-Mary, post-series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 16:36:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3454115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At Mrs Hudson's urging, Sherlock finally decides to tell John how he feels about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Is

**Love Is**

 

Sherlock listens for the sound of seventeen descending steps, counting them mentally. The front door opens and then closes, and his shoulders release. He’s gone again. Never mind. Can’t be helped. He insists on keeping the clinic job, though they don’t need the money. (“ _I_ need it,” John has pointed out. As if they don’t share expenses already, or as if they keep track of who has paid for what.) 

Mrs Hudson comes over from the counter and puts a cup of tea down in front of him, patting his shoulder. “There, now,” she says in tones obviously meant to console. “He’ll be back later. He always is.”

He hates the comfort, the fact that it suggests the obviousness of the odd emptiness he feels every time John leaves the house. He doesn’t respond to this, therefore, pulling the sugar bowl closer. 

“Oh, you’ll want the milk,” Mrs Hudson says, and goes to the fridge to get it, setting the bottle down in front of him. “There you are, dear.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock delivers this neutrally and hopes she’ll take this as her cue to go downstairs. It isn’t that he doesn’t like her company, but he can feel a Talk in the offing. 

He isn’t wrong. “Sherlock,” she begins, sounding hesitant, and he overrides her. 

“Please,” he says, his voice coming out strained. “Don’t.”

“I just wish you’d tell him,” she says plaintively. She leans backward up against the table, looking down on him, her hands clasped in front of her. “What harm could it do?” 

“Tell him what, precisely?” The words are stiff. 

“Don’t be daft. I wasn’t born yesterday. Tell him how you _feel_ , of course! I can’t stand the two of you moping about, pining after each other! All it takes is one of you to say so, take the first step. I hate to see you so unhappy about it.” 

Sherlock tenses. “I am not _pining_.”

Her tones turn dry. “Please. You could out-pine any Victorian heroine. Don’t think I don’t know you lie around moping and fidgeting like a lovesick teen every time he goes to work, or out with his friends without you. As though you’re always worried he won’t come back.” 

“Well, it’s happened before,” Sherlock says rebelliously, his jaw clenching. He hates being lectured. 

“But he did come back. Because he loves you,” Mrs Hudson says gently. “Now that all that mess with Mary is over, he’s here again.”

“He doesn’t – feel that way,” Sherlock says, with difficulty, stirring his tea and staring morosely into it. “We’re friends. That’s all.”

“How do you know that?” When he doesn’t answer, Mrs Hudson persists. “In those first two years, I certainly thought the shoe was on the other foot. The way he used to talk about you in that blog of his! And to me, too! It was always ‘Sherlock this’ and ‘Sherlock that’! He was so impressed with you! And I won’t go on at you about how he was when he thought you’d died. I’ll just say that it was like he was mourning a husband, a partner. You were everything to him, you know.”

“Yes, well, that was then and this is now,” Sherlock mutters. “All that’s changed. And besides, it was still never _that_. Not for him.”

Mrs Hudson squeezes his shoulder. “Sherlock, dear, don’t take this the wrong way, but… you know that you’re not always the best at reading people this way. Not when it comes to you. For a case, certainly, but – you know this isn’t your forte.”

He puts his fingers around the cup of tea and lets the heat sting his skin. “But if you’re wrong and I’m right and I try it, I destroy our friendship and make everything awkward forever. He would move out. You know he would.”

Mrs Hudson is quiet for a moment. Then she sighs. “And you would go the rest of your life without telling him how you feel rather than risk losing him that way. I do see. I just – you never know. Just bear it in mind, would you? Maybe one evening, the moment will seem right. It’s just that it’s eating away at you, and eventually, one day, it will start being too much to keep in. Right now maybe he just chalks it up to your moods, but I can see it, and it’s been getting worse.”

Sherlock tenses. She’s hit the nail on the head and he feels it keenly. “So even if I never tell him, never ask for it, it could still ruin everything,” he says tersely, the words sounding bitter. 

She pats his shoulder again. “Could do,” she admits. “On balance, it might be worth just having it out, then, don’t you think? Better to know where you stand. And if there’s even a chance that he feels the same way, think of how happy you both could be!”

Sherlock thinks about this for a long moment. “You really think he does feel that way?” he asks, very dubiously. 

“I certainly think there’s a strong chance of it,” Mrs Hudson tells him, looking down at him. “I do. I really do.”

“I’ve never got that impression,” Sherlock says. “Besides, how many times have you heard him proclaim from the rooftops that he’s not gay?” 

“Sherlock, dear, a person doesn’t have to be strictly one thing. And people do fall in love outside the lines. It does happen.” She gives him another brisk pat and shifts her weight back onto her feet. “Think about it,” she advises him, making for the doorway. “If you never ask, you’ll never know.” With that, she goes down the kitchen steps and disappears back into 221A. 

Sherlock sits at the table for a long time, turning her words over in his head. He’s quite certain that he is right, that John doesn’t feel anything for him beyond platonic friendship. But then, Mrs Hudson is correct in her assessment of his abilities to make clear deductions when it comes to this sort of thing, particularly where he himself is concerned. The point that really drove itself home was the concept that his unspoken feelings will make themselves known whether or not he wants them to, though. Perhaps a controlled release would be better than just having it become so obvious that even John can see it plainly, catching him out in his humiliation over it, confronting him. 

The worst part is the temptation to believe her. He _knows_ , or at least is quite, quite certain that he has not read the situation inaccurately, but it’s so very tempting to imagine that she could be right, after all. Fragments of fantasy conversations drift through his mind, of his confession prompting John’s own, half-accusations of _why didn’t you tell me all this time_ and maybe even John getting a bit emotional. In these fantasies, John always comes over to him at some point and kisses him. This part is always vague and Sherlock’s imagination spends far too much time trying to decide precisely how that would go: would John push back his chair from the table and come around, bend down over him to do it? Or would he have got up so as to intercept John and be on his feet for it already? If it were to happen in the sitting room, how would it go? Would they be in their chairs? On the sofa? The mechanics escape him, but somehow it would happen. He’s lain awake at night staring at the ceiling, at John’s unseen form through the floorboards separating them, trying to imagine how it would feel to have John’s lips on his. He knows the feeling of John’s small, sturdy, yet somehow elegant hands, but they’ve never touched him in love. In necessity, in grief, in affection, yes, but never with that sort of intent behind it, and Sherlock is certain that it would feel instantly different. 

He’s well aware of how dangerous the fantasies are, that the more he lets himself imagine the possibilities, the more shocking and difficult it will be once John inevitably starts dating again. He hates the thought viciously, but it’s bound to happen. It’s frankly surprising that it hasn’t happened yet; John has been back at Baker Street for two months already. The divorce was finalised in February, a month after Mary’s child was born and the paternity tests Sherlock had been surprised to see John request had indicated quite unmistakeably that he was not the father of the child. It went quickly after that. The relationship had already been highly volatile and the baby had only been the final nail in the coffin, or so John had said when they talked the entire thing out his first night back at home. But now it’s been two months since then. Perhaps John will be slower this time, more cautious. The burnt hand and all of that. But it will happen sometime and creating an impossible reality in his imagination will only make it harder, not easier. 

Sherlock goes to the sofa and lies down on it, gazing at the ceiling and wondering if he should take Mrs Hudson’s advice and just have it out with John. Tell him how he feels and see if there is any remote possibility that John has been secretly harbouring feelings for him, too. He doubts it very much, but – what if Mrs Hudson is right? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s been wrong about this sort of thing, as she well knows. 

He thinks about it for hours and reaches no conclusions. 

*** 

Weekends are his favourite times, because John is usually at home for most of it, and the times when he does go out, he always invites Sherlock, even if it’s Harry that he’s seeing. Most of the time they stay at home, though, which is what Sherlock prefers: home is where he has John all to himself, doesn’t have to share him with strangers, put up with their noise and bother and suffering through it all for the scraps of John’s attention, for John to turn to him and smile, or refer to them as a “we”, or offer to share something on the menu or get Sherlock another drink as long as he’s going to the bar or whatever. And then when it’s time to leave, the brackets framing the two of them delineating themselves even more clearly as John asks him if he’s ready to go and talks about them getting a taxi unless Sherlock prefers to walk, a reminder to everyone else there that they came together and will leave together because they live together. And maybe if he’s lucky, John will put a hand on his shoulder or the small of his back to guide him out of the pub or restaurant or house of some friend, and once the door has closed behind them, it’s just the two of them again and he has John all to himself and gloats privately over it. 

Tonight they’re at home, though. It’s Saturday. They spent the day around the flat for the most part, though they’d gone to the shops to get some groceries. They’ve finally convinced Mrs Hudson that they prefer to shop for themselves and therefore struggled dutifully through the Saturday crowds. Sherlock had tactfully refrained from pointing out that if John wouldn’t insist on working every day, they could have gone any other time. In the old days, they used to take turns going, unless Mrs Hudson went for them, but now it seems to be a foregone conclusion that they will always go together. Perhaps things have shifted, Sherlock reflects. They ordered in for dinner and have just finished eating in their chairs. There was an episode of the drama series John has got them watching, but it’s over now and the telly is switched off. They’re sipping brandy and the fire is burning low, crackling occasionally. There is a warm sort of silence wound about them, filling the room gently, and Sherlock wonders if this might be the right moment. 

“John,” he says, the name leaving his mouth and hovering between them like some sort of exotic butterfly. He realises he has no idea what to follow it with, words evaporating on his tongue like smoke. 

John looks up. “Yeah?” He sounds easy and comfortable, with no notion that Sherlock is potentially about to destroy their entire life together. Unless he isn’t, unless this attempt could change everything for the better. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and attempts to muster his forces. Nothing comes out his mouth, however. He clears his throat and tries again. “John, I, er, I…”

John looks amused. “Yes?” he repeats, lowering his book. “What’s up?” 

Sherlock coughs. “I, er… wanted to ask about… something.” Now that he’s speaking, it seems like a terrible idea. Perhaps he should just back out now. He glances over at John to see that John is watching him curiously, a small furrow between his eyebrows. Sherlock wants to get up and lean across the space and smooth out the furrow with his thumbs. If this _is_ the right decision, he could actually do that, be permitted to touch John’s face, be that close to him. He takes another deep breath. (What if Mrs Hudson _is_ right?) “It’s…” The words stop again. 

“Well, spit it out, then,” John says mildly, still sounding amused. Sherlock has his full attention, which he normally loves. 

He swallows and tries again. “It’s just – I wondered about – er – us,” he fumbles, making a hash of it. He risks a look at John, whose amusement has turned instantly wary. He hastens to explain. “I mean, our friendship,” he says. Perhaps that isn’t better. “I just – I was – Mrs Hudson seems to think that perhaps you and I are… that we should… talk about – how we feel.” Sherlock stops talking, the parade of ridiculous words growing ever more disastrous the more he speaks. With no small amount of anxiety, he scans John’s face worriedly for a reaction. 

It’s as bad as he feared: John has gone completely tense, his jaw locked. He blinks several times, his face closed. “What?” he asks, cocking an ear toward Sherlock as though he didn’t hear him properly. The word is clipped. “What do you mean, exactly?” 

Surely his phrasing, disjointed and awkward as it was, hadn’t sounded like an accusation, Sherlock thinks uneasily, his stomach turning over. Why has he gone so defensive? He tries to calm his breathing and heart rate, both of which have suddenly become much too rapid. His palms are perspiring. He’s halfway through it now, though. Not finishing isn’t an option; John would just go on demanding explanations. (This was a bad idea. Definitely.) Sherlock clears his throat yet again. “I just mean,” he says, his voice horribly strained, “I wondered if it were – if it were still the case that we’re not – that we’re still just… friends,” he gets out. He wonders if he should say something else but John starts talking immediately. 

“Of course we are. What else would we be?” The question comes at him like a shot and hits him in the chest. 

Sherlock inhales again but drops his gaze to John’s knees. Somehow he can’t look him in the face. “Well… something… more,” he says slowly, already knowing that this entire venture was an enormous mistake. Surely John won’t leave. (Please, no.) He has to say the entire thing, though. “More than friends,” he clarifies, wincing inwardly. 

For a long moment, John is silent. Sherlock cannot bring himself to look at him, register what’s happening on his face. When he does speak, it’s very careful. “Are you asking because you think that we _have_ become something… else, or are you asking because you’d… like us to be?” 

His voice is very quiet, but at least it isn’t as defensive as it was before. “The latter,” Sherlock says, his voice only just audible. 

John sighs, and Sherlock wants to die. There’s another short silence, not at all comfortable this time. Perhaps that warm, companionable silence that was in the room with them before is gone for good. Perhaps that’s all this ridiculous line of conversation has accomplished. Sherlock wishes the words unspoken, safely back inside his head where they belong. (But if Mrs Hudson is right about the other thing, it was always going to come out someday. Maybe it is better to just put it out there and be open about it, though at the moment it couldn’t possibly feel less right. No: he wishes he hadn’t said anything. Desperately.)

“Sherlock,” John says, and it’s much too gentle. (Dear God, John is pitying him.) “You know I’m not gay. You’re my best friend in the world and you’re so important to me. I can see how… how maybe you’ve got confused. We’re such good friends. Maybe you’ve just mixed it up with, er, something else. But this isn’t that, and it’s never going to be. I don’t feel that way about you. And honestly, I don’t really think that you probably feel that way about me, either. You’ve never had a relationship like that. You’ve never had a friendship as close as ours. I can quite understand if you’re having a bit of trouble sorting one from the other, maybe.” He stops talking and Sherlock can feel John’s eyes on him, watching keenly. “Do you get what I’m saying?” John asks, still too gentle. 

Sherlock feels his chin jerk once. “Yes, but I disagree,” he says stiffly. “I know what I feel.”

There’s another loaded pause. “How would you know?” John asks, keeping his voice as kind as one can while saying what he is saying. “You’ve never felt – romantically about anyone before. Never been in love, I mean. What we have – it’s not that. It’s a good friendship, the very best. People should be jealous of what we have. But you’re not in love with me. I don’t think you would even know what that was, honestly. What it means to feel that way about someone. To love someone.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenches. “I know what love is,” he says to the floor between them. He pulls his knees and feet up onto the chair, wrapping his arms around them. He wants to disappear. “I’m not a complete idiot, despite your charitable view of me.”

“Sorry,” John says, sounding like he means it. “I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. I’m just saying, I can see how you could easily confuse the two feelings. That’s all. If it helps, I – feel very strongly about you. I love you as a friend, very much. You’re the most important person in my life. But romantic love, being in love, that’s something quite different.” 

Sherlock looks at him then, directly, his eyes piercing into John’s. “Don’t tell me what I feel,” he says, his voice sharp. “That’s not up to you to dictate.”

John has the grace to look apologetic. “No,” he concedes. “Perhaps not. In that case, all I can say is that I’m sorry. That sort of thing – that’s not going to happen, with us. It’s just not something I’m interested in. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock feels his lips tighten and doesn’t say anything, his eyes dropping to the floor again. He wants the leave the room but doesn’t know how to get himself out of his chair. 

John spares him and gets to his feet. “I, er, think maybe I’ll head up,” he says, sounding like he’s trying very hard to be tactful. “Look, er… this doesn’t change anything, as far as I’m concerned. We can just pretend we never had this conversation. All right? Might be for the best. But don’t forget what I said: our friendship is so important to me. I mean that. And this – it doesn’t matter.”

“Not to you,” Sherlock says, just audibly. His jaw is stiff. 

John pauses. He sighs and Sherlock peripherally sees his head drop forward. “I keep blundering,” he says, sounding uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. I really am.” He stops, possibly waiting to see if Sherlock is going to respond. When he doesn’t, John sighs again. “Okay. Well – I’m going to go up. Er, good night.” 

Sherlock doesn’t say it back. Instead he listens to John’s footsteps climbing the stairs (seven, the landing, then five more), his bedroom door closing. He doesn’t move. Eventually the fire dies and the room grows cold. The moonlight stretches long shadows out over the sitting room, dark fingers spreading through the familiar space. Sherlock thinks of spending the night where he is, in the chair, but John would think he was being melodramatic, and he would be correct. He thinks of leaving. Of putting his coat on and walking out and never coming back, but that thought is unbearable, too. It would mean losing everything – not just John, though that’s worst part, but his life here in London. Solving crimes. The flat. Mrs Hudson. On balance, perhaps the rest of it isn’t all that much, but it’s his life, the life he missed terribly while he was away. And it would mean that he would be rejecting John’s friendship, expressed very sincerely just now. It would mean refusing all of that just because John refuses to even entertain the notion of Sherlock actually feeling what he feels, never mind being at all open to the possibility of allowing himself to feel the same way in return. 

That’s almost the worst part: that he genuinely believes Sherlock to be utterly clueless when it comes to the concept of what love is. He honestly thinks that Sherlock has no idea. With a pang of self-loathing, Sherlock realises that it hurts partly because there may be some truth to it. He _isn’t_ , as Mrs Hudson tactfully pointed out the other day, especially good about this sort of thing. After years of John disagreeing with his self-diagnosis as a sociopath, Sherlock has finally started believing it, but this is one area where his doubts about himself have never been fully vanquished. He does feel certain of the fact that he craves considerably more from John than what he currently has. Perhaps that’s just his selfishness, his jealousy, his desire to possess all of John’s time and focus and interest. Perhaps it’s not love, after all. 

He is quite sure that it is, though. Quite sure that it cannot possibly only be selfish possessiveness that makes him want to know what John’s mouth on his would be like, what it would be to have John look at him the way he used to look at Mary sometimes, in the days before he found out who she really was. What it would be like to fall asleep next to him and just marvel at being allowed to share his bed, listen to John breathing all night. And more, of course. It cannot only be confused platonic feelings that make him desire John in a profoundly physical manner as well, wanting to be touched in that way so badly that sometimes he feels his skin will split open from sheer want. That he yearns to know, _needs_ to know what John looks like when sexually aroused. What it would be like to be with him like that, how John behaves as a lover, the way his voice would sound, the way his hands would feel on Sherlock’s body. That’s more than scientific curiosity, surely. And when he touches himself in the furtive privacy of his own bed, or in the shower sometimes, thinking of John – that must signify more than platonic attachment. 

It’s misery. And now John knows what he wants, even if he thinks that Sherlock has no concept of what he claims to actually feel. It’s bad enough having his claim to feel what he feels rejected so thoroughly, but to have John reject the idea that Sherlock even knows what those feelings are is even worse, that he can’t even take it seriously. Not only does he not love Sherlock in return; he is incapable of even treating the concept of Sherlock’s love in earnest. Sherlock closes his eyes in the moonlight and thinks again that he wants to die. 

Close to four, he finally uncurls his stiff, cold legs and goes mechanically into his bedroom and closes the door. He has no idea how he can possibly face the morning and John over the breakfast table. Not just tomorrow, but every day after that, too. 

Life has just become a nightmare, one from which there will be no waking. Sherlock curls onto his side under the blankets and projects into the future, into John starting a new relationship sooner than he might have, just to convince Sherlock as firmly as possible that there is definitely no possibility of the two of them ever becoming that. He imagines John’s gentle compassion when he tells him about it, about whatever woman he’s found this time. He hears John’s voice saying the words _not gay!_ again and wants to block them out forever. And the worst part is, he _knew_. He knew it was a bad idea, and it was. It was a horrifically poor idea and he should have trusted his instincts and stopped himself before the damage was done. It’s too late now. It will always be too late now, the words never retractable, permanently out there between them. 

Sherlock turns onto his side and stares at the wall opposite. (How can he possibly face tomorrow?)

*** 

He sleeps until almost noon and feels disoriented when he wakes. His dreams were full of confusing, disjointed images that he can’t remember now but they leave him feeling vaguely unsettled, dissatisfied. He checks the time on his phone, and then he remembers. _Oh_. The crushing weight of last night’s disastrous conversation comes crashing down onto him and for a moment he can’t breathe. The weight has settled directly onto his chest, the old bullet wound aching physically for a moment. It’s ten minutes before noon. He and John nearly always go out for brunch on Sundays, albeit usually a bit earlier. Does John think Sherlock is avoiding him, awake but stubbornly staying in his room? The thought of facing John makes him want to shrink into his skin and never emerge again. Nonetheless, he thinks blearily, swinging his feet down to the floor, they will have to see one another again at some point. They do live together. And are, supposedly, best friends. Best friends talk to each other. Sherlock stares at the closed bathroom door and wonders what on earth he can possibly say to John today. 

He gets up woodenly, still feeling dazed from the dreams and the weight of the burden on his chest, and takes one of his dressing gowns off the back of the bedroom door before going into the bathroom. There can be no more going out into the flat in just a sheet, not without making John feel seriously uncomfortable. He looks at himself in the mirror and thinks that he looks awful. There are dark circles under his eyes and the fine lines around them seem to have deepened. Sherlock scowls at himself and brushes his teeth resentfully. If he were a different sort of person, maybe John would have considered the thought. He thinks of Major bloody Sholto and wonders for the millionth time if anything ever happened there. If it did, then how can John claim so stridently to be strictly _not gay!_ after all? And if it did, then John clearly has a type: tall, taciturn, commanding men who tell him what to do and yet take orders from him when the pressure is really on. And if he is in fact John’s type in a generic sense, then – why? Why the rejection? The only possible reason, then, must be that Sherlock is his type in general, but Sherlock himself is what he doesn’t like. 

Or nothing happened with Sholto, despite John’s seeming crush and Sherlock’s ability to read John that way is abysmal. Or John was attracted – to both of them, maybe, but would never actually consider following up on it. Superior officer crushes are common enough, or so his consequent reading had led him to believe. But it likely never would have happened, not between a major and a captain. Such a thing could have resulted in Sholto being court-martialled. No: Sherlock reverts to his primary opinion, which is that it was nothing more than admiration for a commanding officer than he saw there, perhaps even a stand-in father figure to replace the lack of father in John’s childhood. John does have a natural affinity for commander figures, despite the chip on his shoulder regarding most authority, a chip which Sherlock has always liked and shared. In their work, John always follows his lead, usually with minimal complaint. Unless it’s something medical, or a question of interpersonal relationships that Sherlock is missing some vital clue on, or being tactless about. Then he follows John. It works very well that way, or so he thinks. And John clearly likes him very much as a friend. Why, then, _why_ can he not even entertain the concept that it could be more? 

Sherlock meets his own gaze in the mirror again and thinks critically that he looks pathetic. His feelings are written all over his face, as obviously as though scrawled in permanent marker. He frowns at himself as he shaves off the invisible stubble that grew overnight, making it take as long as possible. Perhaps he’ll shower, too. Anything to postpone the awful moment of seeing John again. 

Speaking of whom, his footsteps appear in the corridor and stop outside the bathroom. “Sherlock? You up?” 

Sherlock’s hand stops, his heart beating unpleasantly faster just at the sound of John’s voice. “Yes,” he says, and is surprised to hear how evenly his voice comes out. He doesn’t add, crossly, _obviously_. 

He can feel John’s hesitation viscerally. “I – I was just wondering if we’re on for brunch?” John asks, too obviously trying to sound light. 

It’s Sherlock’s turn to pause. He debates with himself for a long moment, then decides that the best possible thing to do is to try to keep things as normal-seeming as he is able. If he wants their friendship to survive this train wreck, then he simply _must_. “All right,” he says, his lips hardly moving. 

“Okay,” John says from the other side of the door. He sounds relieved. “Um – how soon do you want to go, then? Only I didn’t eat, because I wasn’t sure, and I’m a bit hungry…”

He can shower later. “Five minutes,” Sherlock says. 

“Okay, great!” John is trying too hard and it makes Sherlock wince. 

“Perhaps we should invite Mrs Hudson,” he says, the idea occurring spontaneously. A neutral third party might help dispel the tension a bit. Give them both someone else to talk to rather than one another. 

“That’s a great idea,” John says at once, sounding so relieved that Sherlock resents having suggested it. He backpedals, perhaps realising, adding, “I mean, she’d probably like that. To be included. I’ll, er, I’ll just go down and ask while you get dressed.”

He departs hastily and Sherlock looks unhappily at himself in the mirror. This is going to be the worst brunch ever. Good job Mrs Hudson is coming. She’d better come, at any rate. Then she can see what her stupid, _wrong_ advice has done. 

Sherlock puts the razor back in its stand and goes into the bedroom to get dressed. 

*** 

Brunch is awful. On the surface it’s tolerable but only just. John keeps trying to address him as though nothing is wrong but Sherlock can feel that it is, and answers in stiff monosyllables and ignores Mrs Hudson’s concerned eyes. He cannot finish his food and doesn’t offer it to John for once. He tunes out Mrs Hudson and John chatting, drinks his coffee and looks around the restaurant as he wonders how many small things he’s about to lose, things that will put John uncomfortably in mind of couple-ness. There’s a lot for him to object to, now that he’s been made aware of Sherlock’s – mistaken and misinterpreted, of course – feelings for him. He drinks five or six cups of coffee and is drumming his fingers on the table by the time the bill finally comes. He puts his credit card down the instant the server sets it down and waves the man away. 

“Sherlock,” John says, looking at him across the table. They’re seated diagonally opposite, as far from each other as possible. “You didn’t have to pay.”

John stopped objecting to him paying years ago. Literally years. The only times he ever insisted on it was when Mary was with them, or sometimes he’d pay for himself and Mary and let Sherlock pay for himself. It varied. But not since he moved back in. This stings, as though Sherlock has lost the privilege. He doesn’t know what to say. Perhaps John will insist on splitting all of the household expenses precisely down the middle from now on, too. Perhaps that’s why he’s kept his stupid job that he doesn’t even like. He doesn’t – it bores him to death. He only goes out of a sense of duty. Sherlock doesn’t reply, literally at a loss as to how to respond to this. 

Across from him, Mrs Hudson seems to pick up the awkwardness. She reaches over and puts her hand on his wrist and somehow the touch makes his throat tight. “It’s lovely of you,” she assures him. “You’re very generous.”

He swallows past the pain in his throat. “It’s just breakfast,” he mutters, not looking at either of them, both in defence to John’s rebuke and avoidance of Mrs Hudson’s praise. He cannot stand this. “Let’s go,” he says abruptly, still avoiding both their eyes. He gets up and puts his scarf on, not having taken off his coat. He goes to the door and waits as John and Mrs Hudson retrieve their things. Mrs Hudson is saying something to John and John isn’t making eye contact. (Will he try to deny this, too? God knows the list of things he denies is long enough.) For a moment the bitterness swamps him and Sherlock fights to breathe again. 

When the taxi stops, John has his wallet out before Sherlock has even thought of it. He doesn’t protest, but when they all get out, Sherlock hangs back and doesn’t follow them inside. When Mrs Hudson notices and turns back to ask, he informs her (them) that he is going for a walk. For a moment John’s eyes linger on him, but then he changes his mind and goes inside. Sherlock has already turned away when the door closes, and he feels as though he has been made an exile from the house even though it was his choice not to go in. He thrusts his hands into his coat pockets and walks in the direction of Regent’s Park. He walks the entire perimeter of it, then wanders through the interior. When that’s exhausted, he exits at the south end and walks aimlessly through Marylebone and Fitzrovia, not seeing anything for once, just walking. He walks through Soho and Covent Garden without seeing them either, then starts across the Golden Jubilee bridge. He stops in the middle to watch the Eye for awhile, remembering the time he and John were on it, looking for a notorious pickpocket. He remembers John’s distracted delight in the view, as he’d never been on it before. Neither had Sherlock, for that matter, but would he have noticed the beauty of the view without John there to make him think of it? (Or of the beauty of John’s reaction to it?) 

His heart gives a fierce pang and suddenly he wonders if there _is_ any point in going home, if things aren’t completely over already. Just as he is thinking this, his phone pings in his pocket. It’s John. His pulse increasing, Sherlock swipes a thumb over the screen and reads the text. 

_You coming home sometime? I’m cooking._  
_That thing you like with the peas. Pick up a_  
_bottle of white on your way?_

Sherlock is given pause. Suddenly he feels fiercely grateful for John – grateful that he was so kind about it, even if his comments about Sherlock’s understanding of love cut him to the core. He is trying so hard to make things be right. He should have trusted in this, in the strength of their friendship to get them through his unwelcome declaration last night. His heart lifts slightly and suddenly the world seems the smallest fragment less unkind. He texts back. 

_I’ll be home in fifteen. Is that too late?_

The message shows as _read_ at once and the ellipsis of John typing appears. Then the message: 

_Not at all! See you soon. :)_

Sherlock smiles at his phone. He hurries back over the bridge toward the north bank and hails the first taxi he sees. 

*** 

Dinner is… all right. Better than brunch. John is studiedly normal, friendly without being too obvious about it. He even pats Sherlock on the shoulder once, as though to purposefully show him that he isn’t afraid to do so, that nothing has changed in that respect. He seems pleased with Sherlock’s choice of wine and says when he arrives that it was faster than he’d expected. And he’s made the thing that Sherlock mentioned at the wedding, which he’s done much more often ever since he came home. It involves mashed potatoes and peas and tender pieces of chicken breast and some sort of creamy gravy and Sherlock loves it. It was what John always used to make when there was nothing special on. It’s not that it’s that special as meals go, but it was always highly symbolic for him of normal, everyday life with John. And he used to tease him about it not having a name, so it had become one of their many inside jokes. The pinot grigio elevates the meal slightly and John gets out the mint ice cream they bought the previous afternoon, which feels like ten years ago now, for dessert. 

It’s all right. Not good, but cautiously acceptable. Beneath his friendliness, Sherlock can sense John’s unease, his anxious hope that the situation between them can be repaired. He is a real friend indeed, Sherlock thinks, catching John’s eyes flick hastily away from his when he looks up over his ice cream. He’s obviously just as worried that he’s wrecked things, himself, hurt Sherlock horribly. Which he has, but – they are still best friends. It will be okay again eventually. Maybe. “Want to watch another episode of _Broadchurch_?” John asks, the tension still there behind his words. 

Sherlock doesn’t want to say no to him, so he doesn’t. “Okay.” 

John smiles, just a bit. “Let’s leave the dishes for tomorrow,” he says. 

“It’s my turn. You cooked. I’ll wash them while you’re at work,” Sherlock responds. This is their agreement, after all. 

“Right, okay.” John gets up and takes both of their plates to the sink. “I’ll just get the episode set up.”

“Do you want the fire lit?” Sherlock asks. This is traditionally his job. 

“It’s up to you.” John is being courteous, too much so, but Sherlock supposes that it’s a great deal better than him being stiff and defensive and keeping him at arm’s length, as though offended by Sherlock having the audacity to feel what he feels for him. 

Sherlock decides to forego the fire, even if it would mean giving his hands something to do. Perhaps it’s too romantic. (Is everything romantic when John is involved? Maybe.) Instead he sits down in his chair and deliberately does not watch John fiddle with the DVD player. 

It would be too much to ask the universe that he stop feeling this way. He knows that he never will. He’s lived with it for this long. Perhaps one day John will be as accustomed to it as he is, and it will stop mattering. Eventually. 

*** 

Somehow, life goes on. Mrs Hudson waits until Monday afternoon before she comes up and slips into the kitchen as he’s washing last night’s dishes as promised. She plugs in the kettle and throws away the junk mail, unasked, but there’s little point trying to stop her doing it. He knows she is going to ask, but the quiet in the kitchen says that she already knows. 

She makes tea and waits for him to come and sit down across from him. He does so reluctantly, not making eye contact with her. She can be the first to speak if she’s so anxious to talk about this. She pours the tea. “So,” she says, and her voice is soft. “You told him, then.” 

He tries not to grit his teeth. He does blame her to an extent, but in the end it was his decision to let himself hope that she was right rather than trust his own instincts. “I did.” 

“And you were right.” 

She sounds sad, almost wistful. “I was.” His words are still short. He puts sugar into his tea and stirs, then adds milk. “I wish I hadn’t been.” 

She shakes her head. “I’m ever so sorry. I misled you. I really thought – I really did!”

“I know. But you were wrong,” Sherlock says shortly. “He doesn’t feel that way and he made it quite clear that he never will. That there’s no chance of it whatsoever.”

Mrs Hudson makes a slightly exasperated noise. “If that man knew the first thing about himself – ” she starts, but Sherlock doesn’t want to hear it. 

“Don’t,” he says sharply. He clears his throat and softens his tone. “He was as kind as possible about it. But very firm on the point. And he’s been trying his best to… make amends, as it were, ever since. If he really doesn’t feel that way at all, how can I blame him? If people could control their feelings, I wouldn’t be in this position. Therefore how can I _not_ understand him?” 

The words are hard to say, but he means them. Mrs Hudson’s eyes are too much, too full of pained pity and compassion. “But if he only knew himself,” she says dispiritedly. “I would put money on it, you know. To know what’s really in his heart. To know what he himself can’t seem to see. You’re the sun in his universe.”

“Platonically,” Sherlock says, the word acidic on his tongue. 

She sighs and shakes her head but doesn’t contradict him. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I really am. I thought he’d appreciate you more.”

“I don’t think it’s about appreciation,” Sherlock says stiffly, though he knows he’s certainly felt that, too. “Although, he thinks I don’t know what it means to love someone.”

Her eyes find his. “You told him that?” she asks. “That you love him?” 

“It was… heavily implied.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson looks so unhappy that he pushes her teacup toward her. 

“Drink your tea before it gets cold,” he says with an effort, and picks up his own and drink a third of it, the tea hot enough to scorch his tongue and the roof of his mouth. 

“And you wouldn’t want me to say anything, I know,” Mrs Hudson says, sighing again. 

“Of course not.” Sherlock looks away. “It wouldn’t help.”

“No, I don’t think it would. Still.” She looks at him, her eyes still wistful. “Maybe he’ll come to his senses.”

“Maybe he’ll just get married again,” Sherlock says, unable to restrain the bitterness this time. 

“He wouldn’t,” Mrs Hudson says sharply. “He wouldn’t _dare_ do that to you again! Not after last time!”

“You know how often he likes to tell everyone he’s not gay,” Sherlock points out. “It’s only logical to assume that he will, therefore, eventually want to form another romantic alliance at some point.”

“If he leaves you again, he is dead to me,” Mrs Hudson vows, rather vehemently. “I mean that, Sherlock. If he puts you through that again, I won’t want to know him.”

Sherlock tries to smile at this but it fails. “Let’s not talk about it any more,” he says instead. 

She reaches over and pats his wrist. “Just as you like, dear. I _am_ sorry, though. He should feel honoured that you would feel that way about him, and trust him enough to tell him.”

Sherlock’s lip twists. “He thinks I don’t even know the difference between strong platonic friendship and love,” he says. “He thinks I’m just confused.”

“Well, that’s a bit insulting,” Mrs Hudson comments. “I should think you would know how you feel better than he would!”

“It – hurt,” Sherlock admits, looking down at the table between them. It’s embarrassing to admit it, but just saying it out loud seems to help, somehow. 

“I’m sure it did.” She is sympathetic. “It’s rotten, being in your position. We’ve all been there sometime. Unrequited love is not a happy thing. We’ll leave it, as you said, but you know where to find me if you ever need to talk about it. Or just a shoulder.”

He manages a passable smile at that, though it’s tight, and she gets up, taking their cups back to the sink to rinse them out. “Mrs Hudson.”

“Yes, dear?” 

“I shouldn’t have told him. I don’t blame you, but I should have trusted my instincts. I knew.” Sherlock says this to his hands, his tone wooden. “I would have known if he felt that way, I think. And he didn’t. He doesn’t.”

Mrs Hudson dries the two cups and puts them back in the cupboard. “Well, all I can say is that I hope for both your sakes to see you both proven wrong about that before I die. You two were meant for each other, that’s plain as day. I’m quite indignant that John hasn’t spotted it yet, that’s all. But maybe he will.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Don’t do that. I don’t want to hope. It’s too dangerous.” 

Mrs Hudson sighs again. “Perhaps you’re right,” she says, and it’s so dismal that he almost feels the urge to apologise for saying it. Strangely, it _is_ a slight comfort to have her on his side over this. 

Meanwhile, John continues to make a too-obviously forced effort to make it seem as though nothing has changed, though of course it has. Sherlock does his best to keep it from showing on his face, though sometimes he can’t help himself. He feels certain that John can see it sometimes, though he makes every tactful effort not to notice, and then Sherlock can sense him feeling badly again and hates himself for having made the conversation or situation awkward. 

Lestrade gives them a lift home in the cruiser one very late night after a non-stop three-day case. It’s a long drive from Croydon and it’s already past three and Sherlock falls asleep despite himself. When he wakes, the cruiser is just turning onto Baker Street and his head is resting on John’s, which seems to be on his shoulder. Multiple alarms go off in his mind’s ear despite the blur of fatigue and Sherlock makes himself lift his head away, sitting up properly and clearing his throat. John wakes at this and sits up, too. Sherlock misses the warmth of his head immediately. 

“Oh, sorry,” he says, his voice scratchy and instantly awkward. 

“Not an issue,” Sherlock says, looking out the window. He glances at Lestrade in the mirror and wonders if he noticed, and if so, what he thought. It’s ridiculous, but he _wants_ people to think they’re a couple. To side with him on this, on the notion that he and John do belong together, as Mrs Hudson said. 

The car stops in front of the flat. “There you are, then,” Lestrade announces. His eyes meet Sherlock’s in the mirror now. “Thanks again, both of you. Really glad we got that one.” 

“Yeah, well, one less child molester running around London is always worthwhile,” John says, rubbing his eyes. “Thanks for the lift.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock says, and they get out of the car. He follows John to the door and keeps his distance as John fumbles with his keys. 

“Come on,” John says, and Sherlock opens his eyes, not realising he’d closed them again. He is swaying on the pavement; it’s been since before the case began that he’s slept. John is there beside him all of a sudden. “Let’s get you inside,” he says, his voice still scratchy but gentle now, and there’s the warmth of his hands on Sherlock’s back and arm as John guides him into the flat. “Up the stairs, that’s it,” John encourages, getting him around the turn of the landing. 

Sherlock’s feet make the mental count of steps automatically. Seventeen. That’s it, then. They’re inside and John is tugging the coat off his shoulders, down his arms. 

“Shoes,” John says, and somehow Sherlock gets them off. John propels him down the corridor toward his bedroom. “Get your clothes off,” he instructs Sherlock. “You don’t want to sleep in your suit. Come on.” 

He sounds as tired as Sherlock is, but he slept the first night, at least, and had a nap yesterday while Sherlock was testing for DNA on some fibre samples. “No cases tomorrow,” Sherlock mumbles, the words slurring. 

“Definitely not,” John agrees. “Tomorrow you’re going to sleep as long as you like and when you wake up, we’ll order in and be lazy. It’s Saturday tomorrow, anyway. Nothing on.” He nods at Sherlock’s chest. “Come on, get that shirt off you.” 

He’s already got the jacket off. The shirt seems insurmountable. “It’s fine,” Sherlock says, his eyes already closing. He lurches toward the bed but John catches him and turns him around to lean him up against the bathroom door. 

“Hold up, there,” he says gently but firmly. “I told you, you’ll be uncomfortable if you sleep in that.” His fingers start slipping the buttons out of their holes, so deftly that Sherlock’s attention is transfixed on his small, beautiful hands. If he weren’t so exhausted, this would be rather arousing. As it is, he’s uncertain whether or not he’s supposed to wait for John to leave the room before removing his trousers. John solves that riddle, too, unbuttoning them for him. “You do the zip,” he says, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. 

Sherlock works the zip down and notices in passing that, despite the fatigue, there is a bit of a bulge there. He swallows and hopes that John won’t notice. Though perhaps it would prove that he does know what he wants, what he feels and desires. Still: humiliating if John sees it. 

John is unbuttoning his cuffs now and pulling the shirt off. Next he bends and pulls the trousers down. “Step out,” John tells him, and Sherlock puts a hand on John’s head to steady himself as he does so. There’s a moment where John goes still, and Sherlock winces internally. He noticed, then. John doesn’t say anything, though, just straightens up, not looking him in the eye, his own face flushing. He moves away, hanging the trousers and shirt over the back of a chair. “You can put those away in the morning.” He surveys Sherlock, leaning against the wall in nothing but his socks and swelling underwear and his eyes flick over Sherlock’s body almost nervously. He licks his lips (nervous tic, again) and comes back to steer Sherlock toward the bed. 

His hands are warm on Sherlock’s unclad skin and more than anything, Sherlock wants John to take off his clothes and get in bed with him, to curl himself around John and fall asleep knowing that he is there and never leaving, breathe in the scent of his hair. But he gets into bed alone, the sheets fresh but cool. John is going to leave. (Say something to stop it, to keep him here just a moment longer.) “John…”

John pauses, then sits down on the edge of the bed. “Yeah?” he asks. He sounds slightly concerned. “You all right?” 

“Yes…” Sherlock opens his eyes, finds John’s. “Thank you for your help with the case,” he says, the words coming out clumsily over his tired tongue. “It was invaluable.”

John smiles, and it’s so warm it could almost count as a touch. He compounds it by putting his hand on Sherlock’s upper arm through the sheet. “You were brilliant, as always. I’m glad we caught him. Go to sleep now, and I’ll see you in the afternoon sometime. Don’t get up too early.” 

“Okay,” Sherlock says, and keeps his eyes open just long enough to watch until John has left the room. Then he closes his eyes, dizzy fatigue swirling around his head, and puts a hand between his legs to cup himself, though he’s far too tired to do anything about the partial erection just now. He slides into sleep still wishing that John were there, in front of him or behind him, holding him, and for once the fantasy is more of a comfort than a torture, along with the warmth of John’s touch, John’s words… 

*** 

It’s inescapable. The knowledge of what he’s said, the truth of how he feels, is constantly there, hanging above them like a cloud. Never acknowledged, but they both know that they both know it’s there. It’s there whenever John makes eye contact with him. It’s there whenever he touches Sherlock, the shock of it sometimes startling Sherlock so much that he jumps. He avoids touching John in return, as he nearly always has. Even if John knows already, he cannot go telling him over and over again with his hands. 

One day, on a case, a female media person of some sort overtly flirts with John and Sherlock feels bile stir in his guts, wanting to rise. Jealousy immediately fills his head like smoke, choking him from within. He watches out of the corner of his eye, his attention riveted to John and how he will respond to this, unable to focus on anything else. John is smiling, but he’s keeping himself aloof. Normally he would have jumped at the very first opening from an overture like this. That’s something, at least. But still – will he take it? Sherlock feels so intensely invested in this that he snarls when one of Lestrade’s forensics flunkies approaches him and interrupts his concentration. The unfortunate fool backs away, hands raised in surrender and the rest of them leave him alone, too. 

Eventually John turns away from the (reporter? cameraperson? immaterial) and comes back over. Which is good, but is he about to inform Sherlock that he won’t be coming home for dinner? Has he got a text with her phone number stored on it somewhere on his phone? John crouches next to him and looks at the accounts book in Sherlock’s hands, which he’s utterly forgotten about. “Are we getting anywhere with that?” he asks. 

“What? No,” Sherlock says, distracted. Is John just going to ignore what he was just doing? Does he think Sherlock didn’t notice? 

Lestrade noticed, too. He comes over to them and squints at John. “Well, _she_ seemed interested,” he comments. 

John doesn’t take the bait. “In the case?” The question sounds deliberately obtuse to Sherlock. 

“No, mate, in _you_ ,” Lestrade says, rolling his eyes. (So he doesn’t think they’re together, then, Sherlock thinks resentfully. Clearly he still thinks of John as being on the market. He hates this.)

John shrugs. “Well, it didn’t get her anywhere. I told her that information about an ongoing investigation would have to be cleared through your office, naturally.”

The knot in Sherlock’s stomach unclenches very slightly. Lestrade makes a sound of approval and asks something about the notebook. Sherlock formulates an automatic response and Lestrade leaves again. 

A small silence falls over them as John picks up the other notebook that was found in the crawlspace of the house. He clears his throat. “You know that I wasn’t going to go for it, I hope.” 

Sherlock attempts to shrug but it’s so stiff that it comes off as more of a twitch of the shoulders. “You’re at liberty to do as you like, of course.” 

“Come on,” John says, sounding pained. “I hope you know I wouldn’t do that to you. Not right in front of you like that.” 

It’s the first time either of them has said anything out loud about Sherlock’s feelings since they talked about it three weeks ago. Having it said aloud again makes it feel worse, Sherlock thinks. He decides not to say anything about how it would have been just as bad if it happened without him being right there, and doesn’t bother going into all of the reasons why this isn’t going to work as a long-term solution to the problem of his one-sided feelings for John, that John will eventually feel the need for a relationship again – and not with him, of course – and that tactfully not dating for the rest of his life is hardly going to do either of them any good. Though at least this way John will stay. “Thank you,” he says, extremely stiffly. His eyes fall on a figure that seems out of place just then. “Excuse me,” he says, and extricates himself to go and show Lestrade. 

John doesn’t mention it again for the rest of the day, and it’s a relief. 

*** 

May seems to be the month for crime in London. Now that the weather is warm again, the worst of the criminals are crawling out from whatever holes they were in over the winter. Having case after case keeps them both too occupied for the issue to get as much in the way, though it’s always there regardless. Sherlock can feel it in John’s hands, feel the awkward apology, the attempt to convey unwavering affection in spite of Sherlock’s inconvenient, awkward-making feelings. 

One day as they’re leaving a crime scene following the successful capture of a man arrested for double homicide, a flock of reporters chases them down the pavement. They catch up, surrounding Sherlock and John and pester them with questions about the case. Sherlock answers as many of them as he can as John attempts to hail a taxi. 

“One last question, Mr Holmes,” calls a man from near the back of the crowd. “Would you please address the many speculations about the nature of your relationship with Dr Watson? We understand that the two of you are living together once again, and – ”

“That will do,” John says, suddenly reappearing at his side, his tone sharp, anger bristling from him in waves. He puts an arm firmly around Sherlock’s back and steers him toward the taxi. The questions come pelting after them like hail, but John all but pushes Sherlock into the taxi before climbing in himself and slamming the door shut. “Baker Street,” he tells the cabbie, still sounding angry. “221B.” 

Sherlock slides as far over as he possibly can, cramming himself into the far door. He doesn’t say anything for the duration of the ride back to the flat, and neither does John. 

*** 

Janine Hawkins comes over one day. She does, on occasion. This time it was to ask Sherlock’s advice about a new boyfriend and whether or not his predilection for a certain type of porn has any criminal implications. They discuss this over the kitchen table and tea, and when they’ve exhausted that subject (Janine feeling much better, evidently), she leans back in her chair and tosses her hair back out of her eyes. “What about you, then?” she asks, her tone turning saucy. “Get anywhere with John yet?” 

Sherlock sighs and shakes his head. She asked about this once before and he hadn’t denied it, just changed the subject. “He’s not interested.”

Janine snorts delicately. “Right,” she says. “Tell us another one!”

“I mean it.” Sherlock picks up the teapot and refills her cup, then pours the last of it into his own. “We talked about it. Or I did, at least.”

She frowns. “And he said no?” When he doesn’t answer, his lips pressing together, her frown grows. “I can’t believe that, to be honest. Anyone who ever saw him near you would have thought it was him who was in love with you, not the other way around! Well, maybe that, too,” she concedes. “But – honestly, Sherlock, I can’t believe it!”

Sherlock shrugs. “Our landlady thought so, too. Evidently you were both wrong.” 

“But – ” Janine remains unconvinced. “Seriously, though. You remember how jealous he always was about me! Even at the wedding. Remember when you and me were talking about the dance we never ended up doing, but when you were showing me how to do it, and he was going by and took one look at us talking together and came in to interrupt. I don’t know if you noticed, but I sure did – he came right over to you and put his arm around your back, as though he was claiming you or trying to show me that you belonged to him. And then when he found out we were dating! Or sort of dating, or whatever that was – when I came out of your room, he looked like someone had punched him in the gut. He could hardly talk, he was so upset. I just chattered on, but honestly, Sherl, he looked like he was going to be sick. And when I kissed you, he couldn’t even _watch_ , he was so angry about it. As if you were cheating on him right in front of him.”

Sherlock thinks of how John could think of nothing else after she’d left, of telling John about Magnussen and Appledore and John being absolutely stuck on the notion of Janine existing in his life that way (not that she ever had, but John certainly thought so) and can’t help but agree. “It’s like part of him is there, but he’ll never realise it,” he says slowly. “I don’t know. He was extremely sure, though.” 

“Sounds like denial to me,” Janine decides. “His family was a bit repressive, yeah? That’s what Mary said, once. Or whoever she really was, in the end. She said his dad wasn’t in the picture and that his mum was a nightmare when she found out about his sister. So – can you blame him?” 

“But he doesn’t even _talk_ to his mother any more,” Sherlock says rebelliously. “He didn’t even invite her to the wedding!” 

“Still, stuff like that sticks with you, you know?” Janine says sagely. “Plus no matter what the policy is these days, I can bet the army’s no picnic when it comes to that sort of thing. Not if you’re open about it, at any rate.” The downstairs door opens and Sherlock glances at the clock. Nearly five-thirty; John is precisely on time. Janine lowers her voice. “That him?” she asks. 

Sherlock nods. “Why?” he asks warily. 

Janine grins. “I won’t do anything crazy. I just want to see if it still works on him.” She reaches over and puts both hands on his where they’re cupped around his tea. 

“What are you – ?” He doesn’t get a chance to finish the question; John’s footsteps are at the top of the stairs and coming inside. 

“Sherlock?” 

“In the kitchen,” Sherlock says, looking at Janine’s nicely-manicured red nails on his hands. 

John comes around the corner and stops short, his smile fading immediately, whatever word he’d been about to say dying on his lips. “Oh,” he says instead, seeing Janine. His eyes drop to her hands and she pulls them away at once, as though self-conscious about it. “Hello. I didn’t know you were going to be here.” He sounds stiff and not particularly friendly. 

“Oh, I’m just going,” Janine assures him, ghosting a wink at Sherlock. “Just dropped by to make sure my new boyfriend isn’t a psychopath. You know.” She reaches down to the floor to pick up her purse. 

“New boyfriend,” John repeats, and his shoulders relax visibly. “He’s not, then, I hope?” 

“Sherl doesn’t think so,” Janine drawls. She gets up and comes around the table, dropping a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. “You take care of yourself. Call me if you want. If you need to talk.” She smoothes the curls back from Sherlock’s forehead in deliberately overt affection. 

“I will,” Sherlock says, not touching her. She pats him on the shoulder and takes herself off, her heels tapping as they descend the seventeen stairs. She is amusing, as she always was, and she’s succeeded in making John bristle again. He’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen as though unable to decide what to do next, whether to speak or take off his jacket and shoes, or what. Sherlock feels secretly smug about this, yet also irritated. John has no _right_ getting jealous over this, just as he had no right after he’d just got married. It’s true – that was precisely how he’d reacted to seeing Janine here in the flat, as well as at his own wedding to someone else: he’d acted as though Sherlock belonged to him and only him and that his outrage over someone else expressing an interest in him was perfectly justified. Sherlock picks up his teacup and drains it. “Tea?” he asks casually, getting up. “We drank all of this, but I can make some more.” 

John’s left hand balls and releases twice, then he nods, still stiff. “Tea would be great,” he says. “I’ll, er, just go up and put my bag away.” 

It’s a thin excuse; John normally leaves his work things near the door so that he won’t forget them. Sherlock smiles to himself as he refills the kettle, meanly pleased by John’s obvious jealousy and discomfort. Perhaps _he_ should start dating someone. That would show John. Only, just as with Janine, he has absolutely no interest in that and little ability to fake it. And beyond that, he genuinely doesn’t want to hurt John, as irrational and unfair as his jealousy is. He is nonetheless pleased when John comes down and asks, his tone still a bit abrupt, if Sherlock wants to go out for dinner. He agrees, and things seem momentarily better again. 

*** 

On their next case, he gets stabbed. The last thing he remembers after leaping off a fire escape to tackle the gang leader is a feeling of white-hot pain in his gut, his hand going automatically to it and coming away red, the sound of the other man’s footsteps fading in a decrescendo as he makes his escape. 

The next thing he knows, he’s in a hospital bed and everything is distorted and painful, though not as painful as it probably should be. John is there, by his bed. The sheets feel unnaturally soft, as does the pillow. He’s not wearing a gown, only his underwear, and the sheets feel sensuously smooth on his skin. He is floating: morphine, then. “What happened?” he asks, and hears how spacey he sounds. He can’t fix it, though. 

“You got stabbed, you idiot,” John says tensely, but there’s relief under the anger. 

“Oh,” Sherlock says vaguely. “Sorry.” 

“I _told_ you to wait for me!” John really is angry. “But no, you had to go tearing off on your own while I was still looking at the body!” 

Sherlock has a brief moment of clarity: perhaps _this_ is why John doesn’t want to be in that sort of relationship with him. “I’m sorry,” he says, meaning it, trying to make his voice sound more in focus. “I should have waited. Next time I’ll wait.”

John scoots his chair closer and puts his hand over Sherlock’s where it’s resting on his hip on top of the sheet. “Promise?” he asks, and his hand is far too soft, like the beating wings of a butterfly, bathed in sunlight, and Sherlock is suddenly and radiantly happy. 

“Promise,” he vows. He beams at John, whose eyes have gone all tender and blue and suddenly Sherlock can’t contain himself. “I do love you, you know,” he says. “I do. I love you. I know what love is, and I do.” The words come out in a stream of babble, but it doesn’t matter because it’s true and John is touching his hand and angry because he got himself hurt, angry because he cares, and it’s wonderful. “I’ve always loved you,” he says again, turning his head to look earnestly at John’s face. 

But that’s a mistake: John’s face is like a cloud that comes out and covers the sun, and he retracts his hand, leaving Sherlock’s cold. “You’re very high,” he says, refusing to look at Sherlock. “I think you should probably stop talking.”

“John…” Sherlock hears his voice and it sounds pained. (What happened, what went so wrong? He only told the truth…) 

“I’m going to get a coffee,” John says, still not looking at him. “Maybe you should, er, have a bit of a sleep. That morphine will make you good and tired, I should expect.”

“John, don’t go…” He is pleading but John is adamant, already on his feet and moving to the door. “Please,” he adds, but John shakes his head, not looking back. Sherlock slumps back onto the pillows and closes his eyes. The room swirls around him, encloses itself in a bubble, and lifts away from the ground. But that’s not right, because he doesn’t want to lift off; he wants to stay where John is even if John has gone. Because he’ll come back, won’t he? (Won’t he?) The bubble does not answer and Sherlock closes his eyes and floats away. 

*** 

The next time he wakes, the morphine is gone and there is a row of prickly stitches on his lower abdomen. The doctors explain that the knife only penetrated about an inch deep and that the incision should heal quickly. Luckily the blade itself was only a pocket knife, making a cut three inches wide but not particularly deep, though it did score the abdominal muscle. 

Sherlock listens to this with barely-concealed impatience. “Where’s John?” he asks. 

The two doctors look at one another. “Is that your friend?” the second one asks carefully. “We thought he was your husband or partner, but he said otherwise. He’s around here somewhere. He should be back soon.”

Sherlock hears this, hears John’s denial play in his head as though he was conscious for it, and feels a pang. He doesn’t answer and the doctors leave him there. A nurse comes by to offer him a dose of paracetamol, all the while detaching his drip. “You should be able to go home by tonight,” she tells him, smiling. 

“What do I need to do to care for the incision?” Sherlock asks, ignoring the smile. 

“Well, we’ve explained it all to your – flatmate, is it?” she says. “He told us he’s a doctor, so – ”

“I would rather look after it by myself,” Sherlock interrupts. “Just tell me what to do.” 

The nurse gives him a troubled look, but nods and begins to explain the basic care. The stitches will dissolve on their own and she gives him a prescription for a heavier dose of paracetamol than one can normally get on the shelves, written by the supervising doctor, and advises him to avoid running, jumping, and swimming. “Just take it pretty easy for the next three or four weeks,” she tells him. “If your work is at all physical, you’ll need to stay at home and not do it. I can get you a note, if you need one.”

Sherlock grunts. “Not necessary,” he says. She leaves him eventually and he carefully extricates himself from the bed to have a look for his clothes. He finds his trousers folded in a cupboard along with his socks, but there’s no shirt. He thinks back – he wasn’t wearing a suit jacket that day; the weather had been warm and he’d already had his coat on. The coat is hanging behind the door. The socks will be a challenge, but perhaps if he takes it slowly, he’ll be able to manage. He lowers the bed, then sits down on it and cautiously, trying not to bend in the middle too much, brings up one foot and then the other, getting the socks on. He’s sweating lightly by the end, but no matter. He gets the trousers on, and then there’s nothing else to do. His phone is in his pocket, very low on battery. He could go shirtless to the nurses’ station and ask for a newspaper, he supposes. He does this. They give him one and he takes it back to the bed to read and wait for John. 

He remembers what he said, vaguely. He said something about loving John. Definitely. He remembers John’s reaction to it: angry and instantly retreating, leaving the room. He hasn’t seen him since. (John hasn’t abandoned him here at the hospital, has he?) No. Sherlock rejects the thought. John wouldn’t do that to him. He wouldn’t leave him here, even with his unwelcome declarations and having carelessly let himself get stabbed when he didn’t wait for John. His thoughts are heavy, though: this will be harder for John to ignore, to tactfully pretend he hadn’t heard. He knows Sherlock was under the influence of an opiate, but that doesn’t make what he said untrue. Is this going to destroy the tenuous balance they managed to find after the first conversation, five weeks ago now? 

When John comes back to the room half an hour later, he stops in the doorway, seeing that Sherlock is awake. “How do you feel?” he asks, his tone as brusque and impersonal as if Sherlock were any other patient. 

His heart sinks like a stone. “Fine,” he says, not caring about the stab wound. The word tastes bitter on his tongue. He is anything but fine, if John is speaking to him this way. He retreats into himself. 

“They’re going to release you as soon as you’re ready to go,” John tells him in that same impersonal tone. “I brought you a shirt from the flat.”

He didn’t even call it home, Sherlock thinks, resenting this. “I didn’t see it.”

“I hung it up behind your coat,” John says, and goes to get it. “I didn’t think you’d want it folded and getting creased.” He gives it to Sherlock but doesn’t offer to help him put it on, not even watching as Sherlock gingerly gets one arm in at a time and starts buttoning it. John turns back to face him as he finishes, and says, “Don’t try tucking it in. That would put it too close to the incision. Have you got your prescription?” 

“Yes. Are you sure I’m allowed to go?” 

“I just asked at the nurses’ station and they said yes, if I’m with you. Which I am.” John plucks the coat off the back of the door and holds it for Sherlock. Sherlock hesitates, then lets himself be helped into it. As soon as it’s on his shoulders, he takes a large step away from John, leaving it unbuttoned. 

“Let’s go,” he says, and John nods and leads the way out of the hospital, neither of them speaking as they walk through the long corridors. Or in the taxi. In fact, John doesn’t say a word to him until they’re inside the flat. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “I imagine you must be. Do you want me to cook or should we order in?” 

“Let’s just order in,” Sherlock says tonelessly. Asking John to cook for him seems too personal at the moment. Anyone can order in, though. You don’t even have to be friends with a person to order food from the same restaurant. 

John agrees readily and goes to put the kettle on. “If you’re in pain, I’ve got some of those pills already,” he calls from the kitchen, meaning the paracetamol. “Or I can go out and get your prescription filled while we’re waiting for the food.” 

Sherlock picks up his laptop from the desk and goes to lower himself into his chair with caution. “Whatever you like,” he says, not particularly caring. He opens the laptop and stares blankly at it, wondering what the hell he is supposed to do about this awful awkwardness between them. It was already somewhat miraculous that their friendship survived his first, abortive attempt to talk about his feelings and the status of their relationship. Maybe it can’t handle a second declaration of feelings, as overt as he suspects it was. John is deliberately busying himself in the kitchen, the kettle simmering and the water running in the sink. John’s back is turned to him and Sherlock looks at it for a long moment and silently despairs. John seems further from him now than almost ever before, save perhaps the day after his return to London. He is miserable. The incision aches and he shifts, trying to accommodate it. He should probably take John up on his offer to fill the prescription but he doesn’t want to ask anything of him at the moment. Although perhaps John would jump at the excuse to get out of the flat. In that case: “If you do have some paracetamol, maybe I wouldn’t mind, after all,” he says, raising his voice over the sound of the water.”

John shuts off the water and turns around, the length of the flat between them. “Do you want me to go and get your prescription?” 

“If you don’t mind,” Sherlock says awkwardly. “I suppose I don’t really want to go myself.” He doesn’t tell John that he plans to look after the incision on his own, that it’s just this one thing he needs, and that he’s asking half to give John an excuse to get away from him for awhile. 

“Sure,” John says instantly. “Of course I don’t mind. Listen – you order what you like, and I’ll be back in twenty or thirty minutes then, all right?” He frowns, thinking. “Your phone battery is probably nearly dead. Let me get your charger.” He disappears down the corridor into Sherlock’s bedroom. He sounds perfectly friendly, Sherlock knows, but there’s deliberate distance in his tone, as well as literally. John is keeping as far away from him as he possibly can. He comes back with the charger, two pills, and a glass of water. He holds it all out to Sherlock and backs away the moment Sherlock has taken it from him. “I’ll be back soon,” he says, still avoiding eye contact. “Don’t forget to order. I’m hungry, too.” 

“Right,” Sherlock says automatically. “I won’t forget.” He remembers promising not to leave without John again at the hospital and wonder if John is still angry that he did. He must remember to keep his word, both on that, and this, too. “What should I order?” 

“You choose,” John tells him, stepping into his shoes. “I don’t care, particularly. Back in a bit.” He’s down the stairs like a shot, the door opening and closing quickly behind him. 

Sherlock sits where he is for a moment. He woodenly places an order from the Chinese place on the corner, then sinks into his chair and closes his eyes.

(This is terrible.)

*** 

It remains terrible for the next week. John does not thaw or relent in any way, treating Sherlock as though he would treat a patient, or perhaps a friendly acquaintance. He stops touching him entirely. And does not argue when Sherlock refuses his help with the incision. Sherlock had expected him to put up a token argument, at least, but it seems that John is all too relieved that he wants to handle it on his own. 

The entire situation is eating Sherlock hollow. He almost wishes that John would just get angry about it, or tell him that no friendship can survive one person being in love with the other, or deluding himself into believing that he is. Instead, John’s plastic amiability, which only just manages to cover the stiffness beneath it, brings a whole new level of bitterness to the entire thing. It’s genuinely intolerable. Sherlock starts eating less and sleeping more, and notes in detached passing the classic signs of depression starting in. Not permitted to work, he has nothing to do, nothing to distract himself with. John goes to work every day and takes his time about coming home. His arrivals become a source of dread as well as the old joy that Sherlock cannot seem to make himself suppress. He longs for John’s presence, yet shrinks away once he’s there in the room. It’s tearing him apart and he hates himself for feeling what he feels. 

That night, after John has gone to bed, he opens his laptop in the dark and begins to compose a letter. The incision is healed and he is able to do this now, and after a week’s thought, Sherlock has come to the conclusion that there is no other course of action open to him. Things cannot possibly go on as they are. They’re both clearly miserable. So: 

_Dear John,_ he types, and looks at the words for a long time. He’s writing a Dear John, quite literally. They’ve seen dozens of these connected to various crimes over the years. He remembers his own words to Jeff Hope, his first case with John, about love being a vicious motivator. It’s true. A Dear John is the worst sort of letter than a person can write. (Never mind. Just write.) 

_I have never before written a letter like the one I am writing you now. This is difficult to do and difficult to say, but there is something I feel you need to know. By the time you read this, I will be gone, which is why I can say this now. I never would have spoken about this at length, knowing as I do that you do not share my feelings, out of an attempt to salvage our friendship. However it seems clear by now that our friendship is not what it was and while I appreciate the efforts you have gone to in order to ensure its continuation, I have decided that it will be easier for both of us if I leave. You may keep the flat. I will find somewhere else to stay, and you and Mrs Hudson would be good for one another. She could do with your company._

Sherlock pauses, thinks for awhile, and asks himself if he really intends to give John this letter. (He must. It’s the only way, because this is intolerable.) He goes on. 

_You seem to think that I have no clear concept of what love is. This is the point I feel I must defend. It’s bad enough to have you reject me on strictly romantic grounds, but the fact that you don’t believe me even capable of feeling what I feel, that you cannot even take the concept seriously, is worse. I know what love is. Perhaps there was a time when I didn’t, but then I met you, and I learned._

_Love is, in my estimation, more than a feeling of affection for another person. Love is something that elevates the everyday into the extraordinary. Love is learning to compromise, wanting to compromise, wanting to meet the other person’s needs. Perhaps you would say that I am not very good at any of these things, and perhaps you would be correct. The difference is that I want to be good at these things, for you. I want to not forget to wait for you. I want to always notice when you’ve left a room, and I almost always do, now. Love means the other person being the centre of one’s focus, the highest priority. Love means sacrifice, and if I have failed you in some of the above points, I don’t think that you could fairly say this of me regarding this one thing, at least._

_When I falsified my suicide in front of you, I neglected to tell you after the fact that I had been obliged to do so by Moriarty. Your life and those of Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were hanging in the balance. He had snipers pinpointing all three of you, poised to shoot unless I jumped. I couldn’t tell you at the time, and later it never seemed to come up. Perhaps a sacrifice doesn’t count if it’s only done through blackmail, you might say. Perhaps those two years I spent on my own, without you by my side, cannot be called a sacrifice of love when your life wasn’t the only life I was trying to save. I think I do deserve credit for Magnussen, though. I never thought that you felt the same way. That was obvious: you married someone else and I helped you do it. What is love, if not calmly standing by and watching the person you love marry someone else? And once we knew about Mary, I did everything in my power to save your marriage for you. In my understanding, that is how love functions: love is doing everything in one’s power to ensure the other person’s happiness, even at the sacrifice of one’s own. I knew that I would be prosecuted for Magnussen’s murder, and in a way, I was. I was to have died in Serbia, which I think you knew, or suspected. Without you I didn’t feel that my own life had much particular meaning. I wanted to do what I could to keep you safe and make you happy. I don’t know how well I succeeded in that, but my point is simply that I did everything in my power to put your happiness above my own. In my understanding of what love is, this is no more and no less than what anyone who loves someone should do._

_It strikes me now that knowing how I feel has caused you no small amount of personal inconvenience and unhappiness. I realise that you cannot help not feeling a certain way any more than I can help feeling the way I do. I hold you blameless in this, even if there has been evidence to believe that Mrs Hudson’s assertions were correct. Regardless, I say again that I appreciate everything you have done to attempt to accommodate the inconvenience of my feelings for you. Yet it seems to me that because of this our friendship is causing you more grief than pleasure and this is something I find intolerable. I regret to do this. It is the last thing I have ever wanted: to leave you. Nonetheless, I feel it would be for the best._

Sherlock hesitates. For a moment his vision blurs and he realises to his slight surprise that his eyes are wet. He thinks for a moment, then finishes the letter. 

_I wish you all the very best. I mean that._  
_Your friend,_  
_Sherlock Holmes_

Sherlock’s eyes blur again. He prints out the letter and puts it in an envelope, seals it, writes _John_ on the back, and sets it on the mantle. The traditional place to leave a Dear John. He takes his laptop into his bedroom and packs about a week’s worth of clothes. Sometime, Mrs Hudson can parcel up the rest. He thinks of the violin and decides to leave it behind. He cannot imagine ever wanting to play again now. He collects his toiletries from the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror for a long moment. This is it, he tells himself. The moment when your stupid, unwelcome feelings really have ended the very best thing in your life. If only he had the emotional control to suppress it – but he doesn’t. This is fact: loving John has become a part of the very fabric of his feeling. He wouldn’t even know himself without it. 

Sherlock turns away from the mirror and turns off the light in the bathroom. He puts the last few items in his suitcase and carries it quietly through the darkened flat, puts on his coat and shoes, and descends the seventeen steps without banging his suitcase against the walls and waking John. He lingers for a moment outside 221A, his heart giving a pang for Mrs Hudson. It’s quite possible that she’ll wish later that he had stayed and asked John to go, but it’s too late for that now. (Is it? For a single, breathless moment, a wild hope comes over him: perhaps it isn’t too late – perhaps he should go back upstairs and tear up the letter and just go to bed. Perhaps their friendship would just sort itself out after awhile.) Sherlock stands perfectly still, caught between the two options. Then he remembers how John won’t even touch his shoulder or let their fingers accidentally brush when passing each other something across the table, and his shoulders sag. No: this is the right decision. Without him around, John can move on and do what he likes, not held back by some tactful-yet-impractical, ultimately frustrating concern for his best friend’s finer feelings. This is for the best, for everyone. 

As for himself, he doesn’t know where he’ll go. It doesn’t matter. Just away from here. He wonders if he has any photos of John, then remembers the blog. Good, then. One day, when he’s ready, he’ll be able to see John’s face again, at least. But not for a long time. 

Sherlock goes to the door and unlocks it and lets himself quietly out. On the pavement, he stops in front of the building and looks up at John’s window on the top storey. (If only John would see him down here and call out to him, tell him to stop!) But this does not happen. The street is silent; it’s past four now and not a soul is stirring. Sherlock’s eyes glaze over again. “Goodbye John,” he says aloud, his voice low and rough. Then he turns and walks away. 

*** 

He receives the first text from John the following afternoon in the bolthole in Camden Locks. He admits to himself that he was waiting for it. Obviously John didn’t see the letter before going to work and just assumed he was still sleeping or out doing something on his own. He picks up the phone, sitting beside him on the foldaway cot, his fingers shaking. 

_Where are you?_

That’s it. Sherlock’s heart sinks. He hasn’t seen the letter yet, then. He doesn’t reply. After another twenty minutes, John writes again. 

_Was thinking of making supper._  
_You coming home sometime soon?_

Sherlock thinks about texting back and directing his attention to the mantle, but decides against it. John will find it eventually. He imagines him going down to ask Mrs Hudson if she’s seen him. (He imagines Mrs Hudson’s wrath at finding out he left without saying goodbye.) He desperately wants John to read the letter and feel badly and then fix this, make it better. It’s a very flimsy hope. It’s not a gamble – he genuinely believes that they could well be better off apart, though the thought makes his entire chest hurt. Only John _could_ fix this now, though. He’s the one who’s rejected Sherlock, even though it was Sherlock who had to go and tell him how he felt. The letter was necessary, though. John has to at least know that he is quite capable of love, like any other person. It’s not even about anyone being gay or straight or something in between. It’s about the two of them, nothing more and nothing less. 

John stops texting him about dinner. Sherlock wonders if the silence means that he’s found the letter, and if he has, what he thinks of it. It’s quite likely that he thinks Sherlock is just off somewhere being dramatic, but then perhaps he’ll have a look in the bedroom, see his missing things. See the violin deliberately left behind but notice that there is only one toothbrush in the cup in the bathroom, that Sherlock’s shower things are gone. Will he be angry? Upset? He gets off the cot and paces. It’s impossible not to think about John, not to obsess over this. He may well succeed in driving himself mad, but he cannot turn his thoughts to anything else. 

It’s nearly two hours later before John texts again. Sherlock dives at the cot, dropping the phone twice in his desperation to read the text. 

_Sherlock, where are you?_

Then, a moment later, 

_Please tell me._

John will be able to see that he’s read the messages, will know that he’s not answering on purpose. John goes on: 

_Can I come to wherever you_  
_are? Please. I need to see you._

No, you don’t, John, Sherlock thinks. He stares at John’s words and imagines he can feel John’s tangible presence through the pixels. There’s a pause on the other end, waiting for him to answer, and then John writes again. 

_I read your letter. I don’t want_  
_you to leave. Please come home._

There’s another long pause, both of them staring at their screens and Sherlock not answering. Because he can’t, because there’s nothing left to say that hasn’t already been said. Finally John writes again. 

_I don’t want to talk about this_  
_in text messages. It’s much too_  
_important. But I have to say this:_  
_Your letter means more to me than_  
_anything I’ve ever read in my life._  
_I love you, too. Please come home._

Sherlock’s heart attempts to beat its way out of his chest, pushing against the old bullet wound from within and expanding painfully. His fingers unsteady, he types back at last. 

_You don’t mean that. You just want_  
_me to come home so that we can go_  
_on pretending that everything is fine._  
_It isn’t and you know that._

John writes back immediately. 

_It’s my turn to tell you not to tell me_  
_how I feel. I mean that with all of my_  
_heart. Now come home so I can tell_  
_you properly, in person. -J_

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. He picks up his coat and puts it on, takes his still-packed suitcase and hastens for the stairs, nearly falling down them in his haste to get down to the street. He hails the first taxi he sees. “Baker Street, _now_ ,” he orders, and the cabbie steps on the gas. He flings bills over the seat when the taxi stops in front of the house and gets out. The front door is closed but when he tries the handle, he finds it isn’t locked. He carries the suitcase as far as the landing before John hears him and comes out to stand at the top of the stairs. Sherlock stops, letting the suitcase fall to the floor with a thump. He looks up at John, their eyes meeting. He cannot speak. 

John is clutching the letter in his left hand. His mouth is set and it’s difficult to tell but it seems as though his eyes are rather red. “You came back,” he says, swallowing. 

Sherlock feels uneasy. “You – you told me to,” he says. 

John comes down two steps, his fingers still clenched around the letter. “I know,” he says. “Sherlock.” His words are abrupt, clipped. “This is the very best and the very worst letter I have ever received in all my life. You – ” He stops, swallowing again. “Don’t ever leave me again, do you understand?” His voice cracks and breaks. “Don’t ever think that I would want that, or that it would be good for either of us – that’s completely wrong, completely and utterly wrong!”

Sherlock attempts to speak, clearing his throat first. “I – thought it was for the best,” he manages to say. (Did John not mean what he said in his texts after all? Or is he still coming to that?) 

John takes another step down. “I might have agreed, before I read your letter, but – I was wrong. I was so wrong. God, I – I’m such a – I’ve been so blind, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” 

Cautious relief begins to ease the tension in his shoulders. “How so?” Sherlock asks carefully, not wanting to assume too much at once. 

John waves the letter a bit wildly. “All this,” he says. “How did I not see it for what it was? How was it such a mystery to me? And then me saying that to you, about you not knowing what it means to love or what love is – and then you write me the most eloquent essay on the subject and point out exactly what it is and how you’ve already demonstrated it to me over and over and over again – ” He stops, his voice trembling. “I’m a total prick for not having seen it. No one has ever, _ever_ loved me even a fraction as much as you have, and – if it’s not too late, I’ve – well – I’ve seen the light. And then, realising all this, and knowing that you had left me – I’ve never had such a terrible couple of hours in my life, not even when I found out it was Mary who had shot you. And maybe the damage has already been done and you don’t want to even be friends any more, after everything I’ve put you through, especially recently. Not just recently; there are so many other times I’ve been remembering now, and – ”

“John,” Sherlock interrupts, finally, needing to break the stream of self-flagellating words. “It’s all right. It is. I just – needed you to understand that I do know what it is to love, what it means.” 

John swallows hard, his lips compressing into a thin line. “I know that now,” he says, sounding unhappy. “I do. I know that. And I don’t half deserve you – but I love you, too. I absolutely see it now, know it from the bottom of my heart. I’m not going to deny it any more. And if you’ll have me – I’m yours, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s heart pulses so painfully he can’t breathe for a moment. “John,” he gets out somehow, feeling as though he’s about to go into cardiac arrest, and that does it: John clatters down the last five steps and flings himself at Sherlock, one hand on Sherlock’s face, the other around his shoulders, his mouth on Sherlock’s. Sherlock recovers long enough to seize John’s face in return, kissing back as hard as John is kissing him, the waves of relief crashing over him so fiercely that he thinks he might faint. And he was right: it feels completely different. John’s hands, his beautiful hands, feel like different hands, infinitely warmer and more beautiful than they ever were before, and his body is warm against Sherlock’s, his heat pouring into Sherlock’s skin like flame and Sherlock closes his eyes and allows himself to be utterly consumed by it. He isn’t aware until he hears John gasping between kisses that he is half crying, half just breathing hard, nor that he himself is doing the same thing, his chest heaving against John’s. 

The letter is being crushed in John’s fist. “I love you,” he says, kissing Sherlock again. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” 

This is like drowning; Sherlock feels so swamped by emotion that he feels he is capsizing and slipping beneath the waves, but even the waves are John. “I love _you_ ,” he responds, saying it for real for the first time, his voice low and slightly hoarse. The morphine declaration doesn’t count. “I do – I love you.” 

“Of course you do. You’ve been telling me for years without my hearing it,” John says fiercely. “I am such an arsehole. That day in the hospital, when you were high – the way I was, after – God, can you forgive me for that?” 

“Yes – yes!” Sherlock says urgently, and bends to put his mouth on John’s again, his hands still on John’s face. It’s like a drug, instantly addictive, more so than anything else ever could be. “Of course,” he says after, then kisses John again, then again. “It doesn’t matter now.” Kiss. “And I’ll never leave again.” Kiss. “Not as long as you want me.” 

“I want you forever,” John vows, his eyes still red. “And you know, that time after that case when you were so tired and I put you to bed and you started getting hard when I was undressing you – I believed it then, you know. That you really did want me. I never used to think that you did that sort of thing at all, but – I believed it then. And that was when I had to admit to myself that I’ve definitely wanted you that way before, too. I just – I couldn’t – ”

“I understand,” Sherlock interrupts. He moves his hands to John’s hips. “I do, John. With your mother and Harry, and then the army – I do. I understand. But you really never – ?”

“No, never,” John says firmly. “I never let myself even – even think that way, about anyone. But if there was ever going to be anyone, it always would have been you, you know.”

Sherlock hesitates, then asks. “So not Major Sholto – ”

John looks incredulous. “He was my commanding officer! I looked up to him, certainly, and I – well, like everyone under his command, at least before his big disgrace, maybe there was an element of a crush, but I would hardly have been the only one. But as to something like that happening between us – no, never!” 

Sherlock feels abashed. “I just thought – and Mary sort of suggested it – ” (Should he apologise?) 

John doesn’t seem miffed, though. “What about you and Janine?” he asks, sounding jealous all over again, but apologetic for asking, as well. 

Sherlock shakes his head, smiling. “Not remotely. You were the only one there ever was for me, you know. Don’t you know that yet?” 

John blinks and puts both arms around his neck. “I believe you,” he murmurs, and puts his mouth back on Sherlock’s. This kiss is slower, less desperate and far more sensual, Sherlock’s letter still clutched against the back of his shoulder in John’s hand, and John is crowding him up against the wall, his body pressing into Sherlock’s as they kiss. It goes on for a long time and Sherlock feels the flush of desire prickle down his body to gather in his genitals, heat spreading from skin cell to skin cell as his body wakens, rises in response to John’s touch, to his hands and lips, to his love. 

“I want you,” he whispers, half-afraid to say it out loud, his lips still touching John’s. “I’m embarrassed by how much I want you.” 

John’s pupils expand visibly, darkening his eyes, and Sherlock actually feels him stiffen in his trousers. “Don’t be,” he says, his voice going velvet smooth, and it sounds like a promise. “I want you, too.” 

(Relief.) “Can we go upstairs?” Sherlock asks, trying not to sound too hopeful. 

John smiles, a smile so seductive that it nearly undoes Sherlock on the spot. “Your bedroom or mine?” he asks silkily. 

Sherlock exhales heavily, still more relieved. “Whichever is closer!”

“Mine, then,” John says. “Leave the suitcase. Leave the coat and shoes. I’ll deal with the rest.” His voice is dark and intensely erotic already and Sherlock nearly trips over himself in his haste to do as he’s told. John takes his hand and locks their fingers together and leads him up to the top storey, to the room whose window Sherlock thought he’d looked at from below for the last time less than twenty-four hours earlier. It feels dizzying, nothing short of a miracle. 

The moon is shining brightly into the room, almost full. John doesn’t turn on the light, just turns to him and starts undressing him on the spot, kissing him as his fingers deftly unbutton his shirt and trousers, one hand ghosting over the front of his underwear as he unzips them. Sherlock follows his lead with clumsy, unpractised hands, but John’s clothing has the advantage of being simpler, at least. The jumper is hauled over his head and there’s nothing underneath except a glorious expanse of bare skin. Then it’s the button of his jeans, because he wants this part so badly that he can all but taste it. John helps him, pushing the jeans down his legs and stepping out of them, yanking off his socks and then Sherlock’s before straightening up and putting his arms around Sherlock’s nearly-nude form again. It feels nothing short of earth-shattering to feel John against himself this way, their skin touching everywhere except through two thin layers of underwear, and that’s the best part, feeling John’s arousal against his own. This is the tangible, laboratory proof that John desires him, that this isn’t just overcompensating self-recrimination over not having seen the lengths to which Sherlock has gone for him, for his sake – he really does crave Sherlock in the same way that Sherlock craves him. He finds himself so profoundly moved by this that he finds himself nearly on the verge of gasping sobs that he manages to disguise and channel into gasps of pleasure instead as John’s hands knead his arse, the hardness of his penis rubbing insistently against his own. 

John’s hands are down the back of his underwear, squeezing and Sherlock is reduced to breathless vocalisations, unable to form corporeal words any more. His own hands are gripping John’s back and arse respectively, and suddenly it’s not enough, even though it’s simultaneously completely and utterly overwhelming in the best of ways. He pulls at John’s underwear, tugging it down, trying to convey what he cannot persuade his mouth to articulate, and John, wonderful John, who has been down these paths before and understands this language of hands and bodies far better than he himself ever could, gets it and pulls Sherlock’s down, too. The underwear is kicked aside and Sherlock finds himself naked in front of another person in an explicitly sexual context for the first time in his life. He never used to care about trivial things like nudity. A body is nothing more than transport, or so he used to claim in the naïve arrogance of someone who has never actually used his body in this manner. Now it feels like the most important thing in the universe. 

John’s hands are running up and down his sides and he looks down at Sherlock’s penis and then touches it lovingly, admiringly, not minding the way Sherlock jerks as the shock of sensation jolts through his body at the touch. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he whispers, and puts his open mouth on Sherlock’s again, stroking him gently, just enough to arouse, to enflame without completely overwhelming. As they kiss, his other hand finds Sherlock’s and gently transfers it to his own erection. Feeling it in his hand without seeing it is even more intense, somehow, and Sherlock makes a sound he cannot prevent and leans harder into the kiss. The kiss is making soft, wet sounds in the moonlight of John’s room and Sherlock feels he could actual combust from the sheer shock of joy that he is currently experiencing. John is kissing him, their tongues stroking together even as their hands touch one another in the most intimate of ways, the warmth of John’s body pressed up against his own. After a bit, John releases him from the kiss. “Come to bed,” he invites, leading Sherlock to it. He gets in first, retrieving something from the drawer of the nightstand, and pulls back the blankets to make room for Sherlock. 

Sherlock climbs in, feeling only slightly awkward. John turns to him at once and pulls him into his arms, their legs tangling together in a way that feels strangely natural. John is kissing him again, bending over him, his hand on Sherlock’s penis again. Sherlock gropes blindly for John’s and John puts a knee over Sherlock’s legs, straddling him under the blankets. He sits up for a moment, reaching for the thing he got from the drawer. Lubricant, Sherlock deduces, as John squeezes some out of the bottle and puts it back on the nightstand. 

“This is new for both of us,” he says. “So I thought we’d just – start simple, if that’s okay with you.” 

“Anything is okay with me,” Sherlock tells him honestly, and John laughs, nicely. 

He bends to kiss Sherlock again, spreading his body over Sherlock’s and it’s so wonderful Sherlock feels he could dissolve there and then into John’s sheets. John reaches between them, taking both of their erections in his hand and the feeling of his unclothed penis against Sherlock’s own is intensely good, shivery shocks of pleasure sending curls and tendrils of sensation throughout his body. Sherlock puts his hand around John’s and John makes a sound of approval. His palm is slick with the lubricant and it feels very good as he rubs his fist over the two of them, guiding Sherlock’s hand with it. John looks down between them, watching, and Sherlock looks, too, seeing the heads of their two penises disappearing and reappearing, flushed dark with arousal in their joint hands. He exhales deeply and John looks back up at him and kisses him again. Eventually he lets go with his hand and just starts thrusting directly against Sherlock’s body, and that feels good, too – very good, in fact – Sherlock hears himself moaning, both hands on John’s arse, his hips fighting upward to meet exacerbate the motion of John’s thrusts in counter-rhythm and that makes John gasp and swear, his hips pumping faster. 

Sherlock’s orgasm overtakes him by surprise; he hadn’t realised it was that close, but suddenly he is gasping, his body spasming against John’s, going rigid and then jerking hard, his testicles discharging themselves with near violence, his penis spurting out hot release absolutely everywhere, splattering against both their chests and he can’t prevent it or stop it – it just keeps going, the physical high unparalleled, pleasure wracking his body in waves, his vision going white. Then the breath rushes from his lungs vocally, the groans tearing from his throat. John is swearing, moving even faster, humping Sherlock’s still-leaking penis harder than ever, and then Sherlock feels it happening in him, knows the exact moment that it will happen just seconds before it does, John’s stomach hollowing and pulsing against his as his hips jerk and his climax rushes over him. The hot splash of his release comes three times, mingling with Sherlock’s on their stomachs and chests, and then John’s body relaxes onto his, both their hips still moving, their bodies still oozing out release. It’s the single greatest, most profoundly beautiful moment of Sherlock’s life. 

John’s head is on his shoulder, face down as his back heaves, and Sherlock’s arms are around him, holding him there. He feels closer to John than he ever knew it was possible to feel to another human being. He is filled with fierce gratitude that John texted him and made him come home. Thank _God_. “I love you,” he says again, his breath still coming quickly. “God, I love you.” 

John lifts his face and puts the hand that isn’t covered in lubricant on his face. “I love _you_ ,” he responds, his eyes soft and fierce at the same time, somehow. “I plan on spending the rest of my life trying to figure out how to tell you exactly how much.” He drops his face to Sherlock’s, their mouths coming together again, and it’s perfect. It could not possibly be any better than this. 

They kiss for a long, long time, the need for words disappearing. The moon rises higher and the room falls into full darkness. It’s the first time Sherlock has ever been all the way inside John’s room before. That doesn’t matter now, because all of the barriers are down. Eventually John moves to the side and Sherlock is finally able to do what he’s always craved, wrapping himself around John completely, all four limbs cradling John, and John does the same and it’s so intensely, exquisitely perfect that Sherlock could weep. He doesn’t, though he does spend at least twenty minutes cherishing the sound of John breathing as he falls asleep before finally surrendering to it, himself. 

*** 

When he wakes in the morning, John is still there. It wasn’t just a dream. He’s disoriented for about two seconds, but then sees John’s face beside his on the same pillow, just inches away. Neither of them have moved as they slept, though their respective grips have loosened. John’s arms are still around him, his legs twined into Sherlock’s, and better yet, he has the beginnings of an erection that is pushing up against Sherlock’s hip. John smiles at him, his long, fair lashes blinking sleepily, and Sherlock decides that he has never seen anything so beautiful in his life. “Morning,” John says, sounding drowsy but very happy. 

A rather stupid smile takes over his own face before he can help it. “Hello,” Sherlock says, and John laughs for some reason and leans forward to kiss him. It feels so good, like sunlight on bare skin. It’s a definitive confirmation of everything that happened last night. The entire thing seemed so magical that Sherlock feels half afraid it was only the moonlight and his own half-imagined fantasy, but it wasn’t: this is real. He is naked in John’s bed with John’s arms around him and John’s lips and tongue on his. They had sex, or something a lot like it (he’s not clear on the precise definitions), and John wasn’t repulsed by either it or him. In fact, physical evidence would strongly suggestive the likelihood of a repetition of some sort in the near future. 

The very near future, in fact: the kiss goes on longer than Sherlock was expecting (not that he’s objecting in any way whatsoever) and turns heated, their bodies shifting closer together again, erections touching. John hand closes around his and Sherlock does the same, finding John’s erection under the blankets. “Pass the lube?” John murmurs against his lips. Sherlock makes a sound of affirmation and reaches behind himself to grab for the bottle and bring it between them. John takes it and squeezes a bit into Sherlock’s palm, then rubs his own against Sherlock’s to share it before transferring his grip back to Sherlock’s penis. Sherlock inhales sharply and does the same, imitating John’s motions. It’s not all that different from touching himself, but it’s nonetheless completely different – John is moaning and pushing himself into Sherlock’s fist with sounds of decided appreciation and it’s extremely arousing to be able to hear and see and feel the effects of his touch on John so clearly. Meanwhile, his breath is coming quickly, his body quivering with pleasure as John’s fist rubs over him in firm, unhesitating strokes. His lips are parted, breathing hard, and John kisses his chin and then his throat, his rhythm on Sherlock’s flesh unbroken. Sherlock goes a little harder, a little faster, and John exhales hard against his neck. “Fuck, yes,” he breathes, and encouraged, Sherlock does it more, increasing his speed. John’s fist does falter after that, his hand moving temporarily to Sherlock’s hip and then arse as he thrusts furiously into Sherlock’s fist until he comes hard, his erection pumping out shot after shot of ejaculate in hot ribbons over Sherlock’s lower abdomen. “God!” he gasps, breathing on Sherlock’s neck, lips on his skin. He moves his hand back to Sherlock’s penis, then changes his mind and shifts downward, his penis bumping wetly against Sherlock’s legs as he goes.

Without a word of warning, he puts his mouth on Sherlock’s penis, his tongue pressing into the sensitive head and Sherlock’s legs both jerk in reaction. The sensation is so powerful that Sherlock cries out despite himself, hips thrashing upward in an unpreventable thrust. The pleasure is intense, spiking through his flesh, all concentrated against John’s tongue and the tight ring of his mouth. John’s head bobs up and down over him and Sherlock is gasping like a fish out of water, unable to stop the noises he is making as John sucks the orgasm directly out of his testicles and into his mouth, Sherlock’s body humming as though caught in an electrical charge and then going off in bursts of light behind his retinas, pleasure slamming through his frame. He can feel rather than hear himself shouting out, his entire body seeming to rise into the air, twisting and spasming in the grip of his climax. His back and arse fall heavily back onto the sheets, his lungs gasping for air and John crawls back up his body, grinning wickedly. 

“I’d call that a success,” he says, looking quite pleased with himself. “Never done that before! Seems like you liked it, at any rate.”

Sherlock cannot even speak yet, still panting, shivery aftershocks of pleasure reverberating through his body. He clutches John to him instead, trying to convey his feelings (and profound gratitude) with his arms and legs, rather than his words. 

John’s laugh is one of pure delight and he buries his face in Sherlock’s neck and kisses it as Sherlock recovers from the strength of his orgasm. His lips and tongue are gentle and infinitely loving and Sherlock thinks again that he could just about die of happiness. 

“You,” he says, once he’s able to, “are extraordinary.” 

“You think so?” John’s lips close over his earlobe. 

“Completely,” Sherlock says fervently. “You amaze me. I never thought of anyone doing – that – for me, ever. Yesterday at this time I was thinking I would never see you again, and to go from that to this – ” He stops, trying to gather his thoughts, then just says the first, most honest thing that comes to mind. “I’m completely overwhelmed. In the best of ways.” 

John raises his head then, looking down into Sherlock’s eyes, and he smiles, and it’s heartbreakingly beautiful. “Bit of an extreme shift,” he says, a bit apologetically. “Maybe this is all a bit fast. But – it was long overdue, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “I’m still having trouble believing it’s really happening.”

John shakes his head, a shadow of pained self-recrimination crossing his face again. “My fault, again,” he says. He finds Sherlock’s hand and laces their fingers together, shifting sideways so that he’s half-draped over Sherlock and half lying beside him. “But it is happening and I promise you it will never not happen again. _I’m_ having trouble believing I resisted this for so long. God, what an idiot I am!” 

It’s Sherlock’s turn to smile. He can’t really deny it and doesn’t try. Instead, he says, “But it’s all going to be fine, isn’t it?” 

“Quite a bit more than fine,” John assures him, and for a moment they just smile at each other, Sherlock’s heart expanding in his chest afresh. This time Sherlock is the one to initiate the kiss, closing the short distance between their mouths, his arm tightly around John’s back. 

It’s interrupted by a knock on the door. Startled, they break apart. “Yes?” John calls, sounding confused. Sherlock pulls the sheets up hastily, covering them both. 

The door doesn’t open, however. “It’s just me, dear,” Mrs Hudson says from the other side of it. “I was just wondering if the two of you would like some breakfast? I could bring it up…”

John looks at Sherlock, the corner of his mouth quirking into a wry smile. “That would be lovely, actually,” he says. “Thank you.” 

“Not at all,” Mrs Hudson’s voice says. “I’ll be back in about ten minutes, then.” Her footsteps descend the twelve steps back down to their kitchen. 

Their eyes meet again and they both start to laugh. “Oh, God,” John says, keeping his voice down. “Do you think she heard us?” 

“Me, possibly,” Sherlock admits, feeling embarrassed. 

“You _did_ make a bit of sound there,” John allows, with a grin he can’t quite conceal. 

“Your fault for making me produce such a sound, then,” Sherlock says, poking John in the ribs. 

John yelps and curls in on himself, proving Sherlock’s long-harboured theory that he’s extremely ticklish. He retaliates by rolling Sherlock onto his back and kissing him again and Sherlock fights back, struggling to get John onto his back, and if they hadn’t both just come so recently, there is little doubt in his mind that it would have turned into another round of sex right then and there, Mrs Hudson’s imminent return notwithstanding. “You note,” John pants after a moment, relinquishing the upper position to Sherlock, “that she didn’t come in, and gave us a specific time frame for when she’d be returning.” 

Sherlock snorts. “She wasn’t born yesterday.” He gets himself off John to sit up against the headboard. “I suppose we should attempt to pull ourselves together at least until she comes back.” 

John makes a sound of agreement and sits up next to him, arranging the blankets firmly over their laps. “If we ever decide we have a kink for getting caught, Mrs H is _not_ on any list of people I’d like to have catch us, though that’s just me.” 

“It’s not just you,” Sherlock says darkly, and John starts to laugh again. 

He picks up Sherlock’s hand and holds it, sliding his fingers between Sherlock’s again. “I really do love you,” he says seriously. “I’m cursing myself, thinking of all the time we wasted because of me. You were so brave, being the one to finally bring it up, but it was there all along, wasn’t it. We always loved each other, in our own way, but it always should have been this.” 

“It’s hard to say from which point, precisely,” Sherlock says honestly. “Perhaps it did need some time. You know what I was like when you first met me. And it doesn’t matter any more now, anyway.”

John’s eyes search his. “Are you sure?” he asks, sounding a bit wistful. “I hate to think of what I put you through, especially lately.” 

“Very sure,” Sherlock tells him, and means it. They lean in at the same time this time, and are still kissing when Mrs Hudson knocks at the door with one of her little _whoo-hoos_. 

“Come in,” John tells her, not releasing Sherlock’s hand, and Mrs Hudson gets the door open with a bit of difficulty. “Oh, sorry,” John says. “I should have opened the door.” 

Mrs Hudson’s mouth twitches. “Not in _that_ state of dress,” she says, not quite snorting. She ignores the underwear and other clothing strewn over the floor, comes over and sets a large tray down at the end of the bed. She straightens up and looks at them fondly, a delighted smile on her face. “Congratulations,” she says, sounding nearly as happy as Sherlock feels, clasping her hands together. “I can’t _tell_ you both how happy I am for you! Finally, after all this time!” 

Her eyes fall on Sherlock’s, the smile turning a bit more private. He smiles back at her, happiness welling in his gut. “How did you know?” he asks. 

“Well, I’m no detective, but the suitcase and coat on the stairs, along with a letter – that I didn’t read, mind – and your empty bedroom were all fairly strong clues as to what might have happened last night, for starters,” Mrs Hudson says archly. “Secondly, I heard you come back last night. The landing of the stairs is just over my sitting room, you remember. I didn’t hear what anyone said, just – tones of voice and that. It was enough to get the gist.” She gets coy now, her eyes moving to John. “That, and the sound of _four_ feet going hastily up the stairs after all that, of course.”

John is completely unembarrassed. “When you’ve made everyone wait as long as I did, I figured there was no point wasting any more time,” he says with a lazy grin. 

“Right you are,” Mrs Hudson says, going stern. She shakes her head. “There is a _lot_ I could say to you, young man, but it seems you’ve finally got your head screwed on straight, so I won’t say it. I’m just so _glad_ for you both, I can’t even say!” She nods at their joined hands and adds, still stern, “I assume that this is the real deal, by the way – don’t either of you go telling me this was just a one-night sort of thing!”

Sherlock glances at John, who smiles at him. “No,” Sherlock says, reassuring her. “It’s the real thing.” 

“Well, _good_ , I say!” She turns and goes to the door. “Don’t go spilling hot tea on yourselves, now – you hardly need _me_ to remind you of how little you’re wearing, I’m sure!” 

“Duly noted,” Sherlock says dryly, and Mrs Hudson favours him with a last knowing smile before pulling the door closed behind her. 

John pushes the covers back and turns himself around onto his front, pulling the tray closer, and Sherlock carefully does the same, trying not to bounce the bed too much. She’s made them toast, scrambled eggs, hash browns, ham, sausages, and a big pot of Earl Grey, and it smells divine. Sherlock hadn’t eaten all the previous day and now his stomach reminds him of the fact, growling loudly. “She could have really launched into me,” John says ruefully. “She must have known how you felt, since she was the one who urged you to tell me, or bring up the subject of us and what we were and all that.” 

“She did,” Sherlock concedes. “But she also could have given me a severe dressing down for potentially having left for good without saying goodbye.”

John makes a wistful sound at that. “Should we take her out for dinner tonight?” he suggests. “Somewhere nice?”

“Definitely,” Sherlock agrees, smiling. “And then maybe this week you could take a bit of time off work, if the clinic can spare you? I’ll be bored at home without any cases, and I’d so much rather have you here to entertain me.” 

“Oh _God_ , your stitches!” John says, his eyes widening as he spreads marmite on his toast. “Are you all right? We didn’t split them open?” 

“No, they’re fine,” Sherlock assures him. “The stitches themselves dissolved a day or two ago. I just have tape over it. It’s probably why you didn’t feel it last night.” 

“You should let me have a look at it later,” John says firmly, and Sherlock smiles and doesn’t argue. “As for the clinic… you know, they can probably spare me for good, in fact. I just wanted to keep up my end of the flatmate arrangement. Not just sponge off you like a kept man.” 

“I wish you _would_ ,” Sherlock says emphatically. “It’s a trust fund. I have nothing better to do with it than spend it on our rather modest life together.”

John smiles at him. “Deal, then. I’m all yours.” 

Sherlock looks at him for a long moment and tries once again to convince himself that this is actually happening. “You really are, aren’t you?” he says, and doesn’t try to conceal the wonder in his voice. 

John leans over and kisses him, keeping his toast out of the way. “I really am,” he says. “I mean it, Sherlock. And I’ll promise you two things right now: first, that I’ll never deny my own feelings for you ever again, and second, that I’ll never doubt yours. You, of all people, have a better idea of what love is and how it works than anyone else I’ve ever known. I intend on learning from that, the way you somehow learned it from me. For all your attempts to call yourself a sociopath all this time, it’s astonishing to me but absolutely true that you really do understand love better than anyone else. I’m going to have to catch up to you, to everything you’ve done for me.”

“It’s not a competition,” Sherlock says, but in truth, he feels terribly moved by John’s heartfelt words. “We’ll just – do our best to love each other. I think that’s quite enough.”

John smiles again and leans his shoulder into Sherlock’s. “More than enough, I should think. We’re the two luckiest damned people in the world, you know.”

Sherlock smiles back at him, almost forgetting about breakfast entirely. (Who can think of breakfast when there’s a lifetime of John ahead to contemplate? It’s absolutely dizzying.) He feels a fresh burst of happiness that seems to go right down to the marrow of his bones. “I quite agree.”

*


End file.
